


Consecrated Ground

by Prociions



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bloodborne Fusion, Blood, Choir!Hermes, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prociions/pseuds/Prociions
Summary: Anoint thy head in oil, for thyne cup runneth over.Hermes would rather throw himself on the pyre than let the good hunter perish. Snatching him from the jaws of death once more is surely a good cause for celebration, no matter the setting. Bloodborne Au Inspired by darkbeast.
Relationships: Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 80





	Consecrated Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Blame [ OhNoHello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoHello/pseuds/OhNoHello) and [StarMagister](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740522) for this one. 
> 
> I have fallen into the deep, deep thrall of bloodborne au, and i cannot get up. I'm almost sorry.

Blood healing was a jealously guarded practice for many reasons. For one, the specifics of proper administration were more rigorous than what an untrained eye would assume. Any fool could jam an ampule into the meat of a thigh, watch it slowly and tediously yield results. Healing, true healing - ready to instantly wipe away any ills of the flesh - would require weighing and measuring the dosage, the dilution; selecting the correct strain of blood to be applied to the proper location.

It was an art, as sacred as the hallowed halls of the grand cathedral. Hermes did not hesitate to defile them both for the sake of The Hunter.

Vials of precious liquid - a mix of the life essence of saints and those few, invaluable drops of cosmic ichor - meant for study and experimentation, found themselves smuggled into the depths of his pockets or the bottom of his satchel. Ferreted out of their rightful place, deprived of their intended use; sacrificed to the object of Hermes’ obsession.

He would sneak into their meeting spots, deep in the woods or the back alleys of Yarnham; kneeling like a pilgrim at the altar to present his stolen treasures. Pressing as close as he dared to The Hunter’s side when administering the blessed cure. Filled with breathless delight at those brief, brilliant moments where his touch would not be shunned. The electric heat of skin on skin as he slid the needle into pliant flesh; watching torn muscle knit back together, hale and beautiful once more.

Compared to other poor souls mired in the hunt, the Hunter’s injuries were usually minimal; as his reputation preceded him. Charon the Great. Charon the Terrible. The sweet rasp of his cleaver slicing through the air was enough to strike fear into the hearts of men and beasts; if his imposing stature did not manage to achieve that first. But only Hermes knew his true worth. The power that buzzed beneath the man’s skin, ripe for ascension, transformation: his admittance into the hunter’s dream, to the nightmare of Kos.

Upon him was the touch of The Great Ones; the favor of the heavens had alighted upon that gruff, cruel hand; and Hermes would sooner throw himself on the pyre than let even a sliver of their influence - of Charon’s heady, intoxicating attention - slip from his grasp.

It would be sacrilege, a sin, to let any harm come to that temple made of flesh, so long as Hermes could prevent it. Buzzing with determination, with the euphoria of touch; he dragged a half-dead Charon up the steps of the Grand Cathedral. Leaving a trail of dirt and blood in their wake, barring the doors to ensure no interruption. If he could not bring the necessary tools to Charon, he would bring Charon to the tools.

The Hunter, likely delirious from his injury - the gaping maw of gore and viscera that remained of his midsection - let himself be pushed and pulled across the streets of Yarnham in the dead of night. Hermes, filled with a frantic strength that allowed him to complete the daunting task; propped up Charon with his body, slotting underneath his arm to be used as a crutch.

He threw the man upon the grand altar, shoving aside the incense and the candles; the trappings of the physical. Unimportant when compared to the piece of divinity that was the hunter himself.

“Not to worry my associate,” He said brightly, scouring the supplies left for the church staff to perform blood healing. “Unfortunately you caught me a little unprepared earlier this evening, but thankfully, we were quite close to the Cathedral, there should be more than enough left for a second dose here!”

The sole vial that had been in Hermes’ possession at the time of their meeting - more than half empty, down to its last dregs - had been exhausted already, buying them the time necessary to move Charon here, letting the true healing begin.

“You really seem to have made a mess of yourself,” he laughed to himself, giddy with the knowledge that The Hunter now depended on him for help; going through the practiced measures of taking out the necessary dosage without much thought. Knowing the correct measurement for Charon by heart.

He swung himself onto the surface of the altar where Charon lay, breathing heavily; the mangled remains of his organs peeking out between the remaining strips of his shirt, stained brilliantly, beautifully red. Hermes moved the lapels of his coat aside, and tore the rest of the cloth away. Allowing himself to skim a reverent hand up the planes of the powerful body beneath, before jamming the needle deep into the meat of Charon’s shoulder; hitting a major vein with pin-point accuracy.

The hunter gave a wet, rattling gasp as the cure did it’s duty, skin knitting back together, smooth and unblemished once more. “There we are, all better now.” Hermes, drunk on success and blissful proximity, giggled to himself; still running a hand up and down the trails of Charon’s muscled abdomen, leaving messy smears of the man’s own blood.

“But you seem to have missed some, rather wasteful I must say.” He sang, leaning forward to lap hungrily at the beads of sacred ichor that welled around the injection site the moment the needle had been removed. Hermes moaned theatrically, relishing the tangy copper taste, but relishing the smooth heat of Charon’s sweat slicked skin even more.

Even moments away from his recovery at death’s door, The Hunter was quick as lightning. Fisting a gloved hand in Hermes’ hair and pulling sharply, wrenching his mouth away from so sweet a prize. Hermes panted breathlessly, arousal spearing through him like a blade, back forced into an arch from Charon’s strength.

He laughed once more, still pawing at the body beneath, skating a hand up to circle one of Charon’s nipples. “Come on good hunter, is your swift recovery not a cause for celebration? I’ve made it clear I am your humble servant in more than one way, have I not?”

He strained to meet the eyes of the man below him, scalp prickling from the pleasure-pain of the tight grasp on his hair, pupils blown and shaking. “Use me as you wish. You cannot hide your desire from me no more than I could hide my devotion from the all-seeing eyes of the cosmos!”

He swung his leg over Charon’s waist, straddling his lap. Rutting down for good measure, letting The Hunter feel the proof of his excitement. Hermes’ hips stuttered forward, lost half in the moment, half in the memories of the one occasion the stubborn hunter had given into the desires of both of their flesh.

Hermes did not live by half measures; all he did gained the full breadth of his enthusiasm. When first admitted into the choir, his studies had eclipsed everything else; losing sleep and meals to the thrill of discovery. The Hunter was no different.

A slower process to be sure, to wrench his attention away from the heavens, to the trappings of the flesh. But if any flesh could have done it, it was Charon’s. From the beginning - even without knowing that the favor of the great ones rested upon those broad shoulders - Hermes had warped and distorted like the skin of overripe fruit, straining to contain the cloying sweetness that clawed at his throat at the sight of the other.

At the start, he had no delusions. The hunter was more mountain than man, ready to crush Hermes for any offense. His cleaver had been held to the point of Hermes’ throat more than once. Lessening in frequency as he continued to come back night after night, like a faithful dog to its indifferent master. More than willing to trade his skill in blood healing for another scrap of touch, a few more questions about his encounters with the great ones.

The natural order of things, untouched by the desires of human flesh.

Yet flesh did desire, regardless of logic; and Hermes vibrated like a plucked string in The Hunter’s presence, yearning for more. A surprisingly reciprocal experience, if last month was any indication. As the dam that held back the man’s self restraint had broken under its own weight, and Hermes had been swept into the whirlwind of his less than tender attentions.

Charon had held a hand firmly at his throat, cutting off air to prevent Hermes’ inopportune rambling, looming above him, panting harsh breaths into his ear as they rutted like animals on the forest floor. Hushed, hurried and filled with no small amount of regret from The Hunter as soon as the deed was done.

Hermes had been in a haze of rapturous delight ever since.

He strained against the hand still wound into his hair, caught between the bliss of memory and the pleasures of the present. “I know you want me,” He sing-songed, scratching his nails through the trail of wiry hair that led to the man’s cock, feeling the abortive twitch of the Hunter’s hips. “You don’t need to like me for that.”

They hung there, pinned by the rising tension until Charon gave a groan of disgust; a sound sweeter than any music, rushing up to crush his mouth against Hermes in a vicious kiss. Thrill skittered down Hermes’ spine like a physical sensation, following Charon’s hand, that swept south to curl possessively over his rear.

Hermes tore himself away, sliding down the Hunter’s body, lapping at the trails of blood that still cooled on his skin. He fumbled with the buckle of Charon’s belt; drunk on elation, the smoke of incense clouding the air as surely as lust clouded his thoughts.

He tugged Charon, half-hard already from the opening in his trousers, thumbing the head; relishing the choked groan he received in return. Touched with a thread of delighted confusion as it was the last time; like the hunter wasn’t aware of what he wanted or why he wanted it, but had fallen helplessly into its thrall regardless.

“Let us partake in communion,” Hermes whispers, stroking Charon in a loose fist. “Feast upon the old blood. Our thirst satiates us, soothes our fears-” Charon gives his hair another warning tug, looking none too pleased at Hermes’ choice of prayer.

“What?” he asks cheekily, licking a stripe up the other’s cock, watching the muscles in Charon’s abdomen tense and flutter with ravenous hunger. “Do you hunters not give proper thanks before a meal?”

“I do,” He whispers, pressing a kiss at the base, winding a path towards the head with his lips and tongue; pressing his own aching erection into the cool metal of the altar that served as their stage. When he reaches his goal; he swallows him down without hesitation, letting Charon buck up into the willing heat of his mouth. The taste is bitter - Hermes’ tongue is still coated with the blood he sucked off the other’s skin - but he feels huge and alive, easily hitting the back of Hermes’ throat; and this is more than enough to make him swallow around Charon like his salvation depends on it.

He nearly gags, lightheaded, unable to breathe; chasing the groans that fall from the Hunter’s clenched teeth. When he’s wrenched away by the hand in his hair, it’s with a wet pop and a plaintive whine, quickly silenced by another harsh kiss.

Kiss is perhaps a generous measure. Charon takes what he wants; Hermes is a chalice, brimming with devotion, and he would let the Hunter drink him dry of blood and air without protest, as he does now. Charon pants roughly into his open mouth as they catch their breath, tearing Hermes’ clothes away in a mad rush until he sits completely bare on the other’s lap. Holy vestments in a pile on the floor, mask clattering to some obscure corner, forgotten the moment the other takes him in his grasp. Hermes keens, squirming into his touch as Charon sets a brutal pace.

“Yes, yes, Charon,” He hisses, burying his face into the folds of his coat as The Hunter jerks him off, ruthlessly fast.

He’s close, he's perilously close when he manages to get together enough cognitive function to slap the other’s hands away, unwilling to let this end so soon. “Stop; we’re doing this properly,” He fumbles around the rim of the altar, unwilling to leave his perch to find what he’s looking for. The little dish of consecrated oil used for blessings.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” He confesses, pressing back against Charon’s finger as it slips in roughly despite the oil. “I took one look at you and I knew-” He’s cut of again with another kiss, apparently the new favored method of silencing his run-away mouth.

Hermes barely minds, as Charon takes him apart, quickly and efficiently until he has no sounds left. Erection pressed tightly against his stomach, leaving wet trails on the skin, well past begging. Just a collection of trembling limbs and high, needy noises Charon seems to have no issue decoding.

The hunter flips him over, slamming him into the cold chill of the altar. Looming above him with the kind of hunger befitting a man two steps away from becoming a beast. Hermes shakes,buzzing with elation and shameless desire when the head of his cock presses is where his fingers once were. He wraps his legs around the other’s waist, trying to entice him without words.

When Charon slides in, bottoming out in one long stroke, Hermes chokes on air; skin hot and prickling like a live wire. “Fuck,” He whines; part demand, part suggestion, part expletive. The rough fabric of Charon’s trousers rubs against the back of Hermes’ thighs, but this only adds fuel to his metaphorical fire. The image of being taken and enjoyed, like an offering on consecrated ground while the Hunter stays mostly clothed, filthy with blood and detritus from his earlier hunt.

Charon pistons in and out without warning, clamping his teeth around the meat of Hermes’ shoulder - hard enough to draw blood - and there’s no going back. His euphoria collides with Charon’s bloodlust, a punishing pace that slides Hermes across the top of the altar. Back bowed and head hanging across the edge; eyes open but sightless, pushed along to an inevitable peak.

He mumbles Charon’s name like a prayer, asking without asking; wanting nothing to change, but wanting more of it at once. He locks eyes with the hunter the moment before it ends, looking wrecked and sweaty before he comes with a groan. Hermes drinks in the sight of him, the long, lean column of his throat, eyes closed in bliss. Feeling his heart flutter wildly in his chest, he commits the sight to memory; searing it into the back of his eyelids for the rest of time. As he reaches down between them, closing a hand around his cock, and driving himself desperately to completion.

Hermes comes so hard it almost hurts; twitching and exhausted, physically and emotionally. Skin rubbed raw against the filigree of the altar, heart torn asunder. He scrambles to separate, moving to hold Charon’s face, elation running like fire through his veins; singing a cold, high song, like the ringing of bells.

“I would have loved you,” He whispered fervently, cupping the hunter’s face in his hands. “If you were only a man, I would have, I’m sure. But you’re closer to gods than any of us; it would be heresy,” he tittered nervously, sliding his hands up from Charon’s jaw, to run through his sweaty mat of hair. “It would be an insult.” He drifted forward, pressing their foreheads together, whispering his words into Charon’s mouth. “You could not love me, no more than a bird could love a fish, or a star care for a worm.”

“So you see, you see,” He stutters over the words, brimming with nameless emotion, trailing into silence when pinned under Charon’s stern gaze. “What is it…Do you have some new objection to the sight of my face?”

Charon doesn’t answer, looking at him more softly than ever before, but still tinged with confusion. The way one might look at a dog in a cage, or a fox in a trap. His large, calloused hand slides around the edge of Hermes’ jaw, holding him gently, as if he might break.

“What are you doing?” Hermes asks, feeling more vulnerable that he ever did when sitting naked in the other’s lap. Charon’s odd expression folds back into the usual harsh set of his mouth, but not before he kisses him once more; still softly, if no less possessive. Stealing the breath from his lungs easier than any exercise or injury ever could.

It fills Hermes, the way a cup might overrun with wine at a feast; and deep in his treasonous heart, he knows he would not trade such a kiss for all the riches in the world, or all the knowledge in the cosmos.

He laughs nervously again, wetly; close to tears and overwhelmed. “See when you do that it makes it hard not to. I’m having trouble remembering how much you hate me, associate. If you’re not careful I might really fall in love with you one day.”

He receives no answer, except for the smooth stroke of Charon’s hand carding through his hair. Hermes turning towards the touch the way a flower might shift to face the sun.


End file.
